The Gilded Lily (55 page)

Lutch moved round to stand next to Jay. There was a moment’s silence. Sadie saw Lutch and Foxy exchange a look.

Sadie felt Jay let go, but with a deft movement Lutch grabbed hold of Jay, twisted his arms up behind him and propelled him forward to the dark slimy wall. Sadie was rooted to the spot.

‘Hold him,’ Lutch said.

Foxy latched onto Jay’s arms from the front, and in one deft movement Lutch swung the cane round Jay’s neck. He pulled sharply on both ends. Jay staggered back until he leaned on
Lutch’s chest and began to speak but it was silenced instantly.

A small soft moan was all she heard.

Jay’s knees sagged and a stream of liquid trickled from between them. Sadie stared in fascinated horror. Lutch let go and Jay hit the ground with a soft thud. Between them, Foxy and Lutch
heaved him into the offal pit. He landed face up, his spreadeagled limbs splayed. One of the dogs leapt in on top of him and began to pull at his coat. The other let out a stream of frenzied
barking. It was all over in a few moments. She could not believe what she had just witnessed.

She felt a great wave of nausea rise inside her. She reeled away and hung over, spitting into the slush at the edge of the road. When she looked up Lutch and Foxy were walking back towards her.
Dread engulfed her, she backed away towards the wall.

‘You din’t see that,’ Lutch said.

Sadie nodded dumbly.

‘Then what are you waiting for, maid? Get outta here.’

Sadie turned tail and ran.

Lutch threaded his cane into his belt. He banged the doors of the wagon shut and unhitched the reins. The horse was standing quietly, waiting. Lutch rubbed its neck before
throwing the reins over its head.

‘God, Lutch, what’ve we done?’ Foxy still stood staring at the offal pit. ‘Are you sure he’s dead?’

‘Heard his neck crack.’

Foxy began to laugh, a hysterical laugh until he had to put his hand over his mouth.

‘Quiet. Don’t want nobody coming.’

Foxy’s laughter stopped abruptly. ‘Why did you let the girl go? Thought you said it didn’t bother you?’

‘It don’t. It’s just – well, she reminded me of Titan. The blaze and all. And her being so quiet.’

‘You let her go for the sake of a bleeding horse? I’d never have thought you sentimental. We’ll have to lay low a bit. Do you think she’ll blab?’

‘No. Not her. Too scared.’

‘You’re a strange one.’ He climbed up alongside Lutch. Lutch clicked his tongue and the wheels began to turn. ‘Can’t see the girl now,’ Foxy said.
‘She’s got clean away.’

Lutch merely nodded.

‘Hey, Lutch.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t half feel different now Whitgift’s gone, don’t it? He would have scuppered us to save his own skin, like as not.’

‘The law was on to him. Safest to cut and run. Better without him.’

‘By, I feel like a new man – my own man,’ Foxy said. ‘Freedom, eh, Lutch? Now ain’t that a pearl worth having.’

Dennis ran as fast as his legs would take him, dodging the other folk swarming through the gates into the yard. He had tied his coat around his waist and ran in his
shirtsleeves to give more freedom of movement. His heart felt heavy as if it jolted in his chest. He found himself chanting in his head
hold on, hold on my little nightingale
to the rhythm
of his footfalls as he pelted up Broken Wharf towards the centre of town. He was glad of his boots for they gave a good grip, but he was terrified Jay might already have handed Sadie over to
Ibbetson for the reward, that they might have already taken her. He did not know what he was intending to do when he got to Allsop’s. Just knew he had to get there, that was all.

He skidded to a halt on the corner of Friargate to get his bearings. The grand houses rose up in the distance, over the bridge, with their lanterns hung out making small haloes in the dark.
Shouts and music drifted up from somewhere downriver. Unused to this chasing about, he panted, doubled over, his hands on his knees. As he stood up a woman turned the corner and ran down the road
towards him. Another looter, no doubt on her way to the yard like the rest. He paid her no mind, but stumbled forward, able to run now he had caught his breath. He set his sights on the bridge and
lengthened his stride.

‘Dennis!’ The sound of his name brought him skidding to a halt. He looked round behind him, confused. But there was nobody there. Across the street the woman was flying towards him
now, yellow skirts flapping, hair loose from its cap. Her face was streaked with white.

It couldn’t be Sadie.

His legs began to move of their own accord. She carried on running, eyes fixed on his.

‘Sadie,’ he shouted. He scooped her into his arms. A small mewling sound escaped from her lips.

‘There,’ he said, holding her tight to his chest, ‘there, there.’

‘Thank God,’ she wept. She clung on, her fingers dug into his back, he could feel her heart thudding against his chest. She was sobbing so hard it rocked him. He clasped her tighter,
enjoying the sensation of holding her, it made him feel strong, keeping her safe. ‘I didn’t know where else to go.’

‘Safe now,’ he said, rubbing her back until she quietened a little. ‘Where’s Ella?’

‘At Allsop’s.’ She pulled away, and looked up at him. Her eyes looked different, older. Her face was smeared with patches of white and wet with tears. ‘At least she was
– but now I don’t know. The constable came.’

‘Oh no, you don’t think . . . and what about Jay Whitgift? Tindall told me they had sent somebody to arrest him.’

‘No.’ She swallowed, and pulled away. ‘He’s –’ She did not finish. ‘Dennis, will you come with me to find out what’s happened to Ella? I’m
too scared to go by myself. Will you ask after her for me?’ She tugged at his arm. He saw that her wrist was bandaged and that dried blood had seeped through.

‘Your arm, what have you done to it?’

‘It’s nothing, a dog. But it’s been stitched. Now hurry.’

‘Should we fetch help?’

She was pulling him into a run. ‘There’s no one we can trust, and they might have taken her already. I just want to know where she is.’ He clung tight to her hand as they
weaved their way through the alleys and yards. She seemed to know exactly where she was going. He concentrated on the feeling of her small palm in his. Finally she slowed.

‘He’s down there. Jay Whitgift.’ She pointed. But it did not look like the sort of ginnel that Jay Whitgift might frequent, or that a fine gentleman like Allsop might live in.
He paused and started to move towards it.

‘No, don’t go down.’

‘What’s the matter?’

She shook her head, her eyes glinted with new tears. Some sixth sense alerted him and he released her hand and walked the few yards up the street. He cast his eyes hurriedly down the narrow lane
into the darkness. The place stank. Probably it was used as a piss-hole by the tanners passing from the tavern. He was about to go back, when a movement in the shadows caught his eye. The growl of
a dog.

Sadie appeared at his side. ‘He’s dead, Dennis.’ She was tugging on his arm all the while, but from a few feet away he had seen enough.

‘Who did this?’

She shook her head, her lips pressed together. He guessed the answer anyway. But the sight had shaken him. He folded her in his arms again. It felt good. He could have stood there all night, but
Sadie turned her face up to his and he knew what she was going to say before she even opened her mouth.

‘Leave him. We’ve got to go back to the big house. For Ella.’

Ella held her hands above her head. Titus Ibbetson walked towards her, a pistol levelled at her. To his right were the constable’s men. They were armed with swords and
muskets. Her legs felt like lead, her mouth dry as cornmeal, she did not think she had any more fight left in her. Her heart hammered behind the whalebone of her bodice.

He walked towards her and she looked back at him defiantly.

‘Arrest her,’ he said.

Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed the constable’s men make their move. She groaned. There was only one path open to her and she took it. She made a sudden dive to the left, and it
must have taken them by surprise for she heard no shot. A new strength filled her. This was it, her last chance. She threw herself around the corner from the house. The ground was slippery with
melted snow but she did not look back, just picked up her skirts and ran.

A shot exploded just to the right of her and threw up a spatter of icy slush, and she panicked, veered left into an alley. She did not dare stop, footsteps splashed behind her. She could barely
breathe, her stays were choking her, but she forced herself to run on. If she could get down to the Frost Fair, she could lose herself in the crowds. Fortunately, there was a young couple walking
arm in arm up the alley and she pushed past them, knowing that she had a moment’s respite from the gun.

At last she saw the stairs. Two men shouldering sacks were about to come up but she grabbed at the wooden rail and hurled herself down to the wharf. The two men leapt aside and cursed and
shouted ‘Whoa!’ at her back. She turned. The men laboured up the steps and she glanced back to see Ibbetson craning his neck and panting impatiently at the top. She stumbled on. Ahead
of her the great stone arches of London Bridge rose out of the flat grey ice. In the distance the torches and fires of the fair twinkled as the silhouettes moved in and out of the light. There was
the dark hulk of the ship embedded in the ice, and the white flapping canvas of the stalls, luminous in the moonlight. Strange, the ship’s mast looked to be upright now. She skewed her head
to look back again. Ibbetson had descended and was behind her, his cloak flapping as he sprinted after her. And behind him, the constable’s men. Even as she looked, he was gaining ground. Oh
Christ in heaven, she thought, let me make it.

Holding her skirts above her knees she leapt onto the ice. Her feet skidded away and she slithered to the ground. She scrabbled to her feet, frantic, her breath rasping as she tried to suck in
more air. She forced her legs to move though her body was resisting, her eyes fixed on the lights in the distance.

Away to her left, a waterman waved his arms at her but she did not stop. She jumped over an oar that was embedded in the ice, one end jutting up out of the flat surface. Ibbetson was closing on
her fast and she could only concentrate on her breath. The ice was wet, as if it had recently rained, and splashed round her feet. She looked over towards the centre of the river and saw with
horror that the surface was greyer, the ice patchy, white floes surrounded by water, grainy like porridge. The surface was moving, sliding.

She stopped dead. There would be no way across. The ice was melting. Dark figures over by the tents had stopped what they were doing and gesticulated at her, waving her over to the edge. She
could see now that the stalls were packing up.

She paused and as she did so the ice tilted slightly under her feet and she heard a creaking noise like a ship’s timbers. She turned to look at her pursuer just in time to see him jump
over the oar. As he landed he seemed to crumple and the ice gave way beneath his feet, his legs and body disappearing under the surface. A black pool rose round his chest. His arm flailed wildly
and grabbed for the oar. He floundered until he had the oar wedged under his arms. He was gasping with shock, thrashing in the water. The cold had punched the air from his lungs.

‘Help me,’ he choked.

The world fell silent, the ground creaked again beneath her feet. She watched him in the middle of the expanse of shifting ice, his fingers fumbling on the oar. His knuckles stood out red
against the ice as he took hold. He was clinging on. Gingerly, her eyes still fixed on him, she walked deliberately backwards, away from him to the left towards the bank.

The water slopped under the frozen crust, and above the sound Ibbetson’s voice, less ragged now, calling, ‘Please. Help me.’

Ella paused. She could not take her eyes from his face. His hair was plastered to his head. His mouth hung open, grey with cold. He looked like Thomas. If she walked away he would die. But that
was what she wanted, wasn’t it? To be free of him. But what would Thomas think of her if she left him there? Thomas is dead, she reminded herself. She took another step away. She
couldn’t just leave him, could she? She looked around; there was nobody else nearby.

‘Please,’ came the voice from the ice. She stopped. Something in its tone touched her. Some humility. In an instant she was seven years old again. Her feet moved of their own accord.
Falteringly she crept towards him, a quivering in her stomach, the fear that the ice would give way any moment. The surface was cracking. Ibbetson’s face was bloodless and pale. The sound of
the ice held her in its thrall.

‘Can’t hold on,’ he murmured.

Ella crouched and slid herself flat on the ice stretching out a hand towards him. Straight away he grabbed for it, but his hand was cold and wet and slipped over hers, and his head disappeared
momentarily into the blackness. Panic-stricken she pulled her hand away lest he should pull her in too. He clutched for the oar again.